To a Hooker
by TarnishedArmour
Summary: "You do realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?"  Hooker.  It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time.  But it did.  Was that all she was anymore?  *based on a throw-away character; ***NOT*** OC!
1. Prologue

To a Hooker

by: TarnishedArmour

A _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction; Reid-centric.

Timestamp: During & after the events of season 4, episode 7, "title"

Summary: "You realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?" Hooker. It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time. But it did. Was that all she was anymore?

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The machines bleeped, blooped, and dinged all around her. There were a lot of happy dings coming from the machine to her left, and the man in front of said machine wasn't even trying. At least, he didn't have the look of a tourist trying his luck on the video poker games-that quiet desperation and the obvious need to enjoy handing money to the casino. That particular ding-it was more of a beeping-chord-tone, really, but ding worked-was the sound of the machine paying out. Minimum bet was five dollars, so whatever he was winning was in multiples of five. And had been for the past hour.

"Wow. Looks like you got a loose one," she said, just to say something. Who knew where the line could lead? It had done her well in the past.

"No such thing," he responded, not even looking away from the screen. Not a promising start. "These machines run on random number generators, no brains, no bias. Best odds in the house, though."

"Really? I thought craps had the best odds." Who in Vegas didn't know _that_? Other than the tourists, of course.

"Normally video poker odds are slightly worse, at .7% in your favor, but if you employ optimal strategy and always draw for the royal flush, you can push those odds to 2%." He still hadn't looked up. But the happy ding was back. He'd gotten another good hand-or employed optimal strategy and drawn for the royal flush. Whatever. She wasn't here to play, despite the time at the video poker machine and the empty martini glass. There hadn't been a martini, but the glass was another good prop. Most men didn't think of her kind of work as one that came with a drink in hand. Made it easier to get up to the room before negotiating price.

"Mm. Smart and handsome." Now _that_ got his attention. He at least looked at her. But that wasn't the look she wanted. Shift of subject. "So, are you in town for the convention?" She reached for a cigarette. Most men like to see her sucking on something, and she'd used up the olive earlier on a non-starter. Hopefully this one wasn't a non-starter, too. It really was too early in the day for this.

"Ummm, there are twelve conventions in town this week. Which one were you talking about?" Damn. He was focused on the game again.

"Take your pick," she said with a smile that he didn't notice. She tossed her hair, just in case, and lit up. Yep. Still tasted nasty.

"Six minutes," he murmured.

"Excuse me?" she asked on the exhale. If he was talking about the average time to smoke a cigarette or how long it took to finish a man with oral assistance…one was too long and the other too short. Not that she had the statistics, just experience. Too much experience.

"I, ah, it's something I used to say to my mom to try to get her to quit smoking. A-a cigarette takes six minutes off your life, so every time she'd light one, I'd say, 'That's six minutes less that I get to spend with you.'"

"Aww. Did it work?" It really was sweet. She hadn't pegged him for a mama's boy, though. Maybe that would work? Couldn't overdo it, though. And it got a smile. Even a little laugh.

"No," he said, smiling, shaking his head.

"'Cause I've tried it all, the gum, the patch-nothing works." Not true. She hated smoking. But if it was a way in? Yeah, she was that low. Funny thing-she didn't even like sex much, but she was getting more and more curious about this young man-he was about her age, she thought-even with the odd sweater and unkempt, too-long hair. What would he want? To cover her own curiosity, she took another drag.

"You should try hypnosis. They, they've had-had a lot of success in the…" He stopped speaking. That was not good. Not good at all. She looked over at him. Desperation spoke.

"Tell you what, I'll put mine out if you buy me a drink?" He was looking at her now. Rather, he was looking in her direction. Not _at her_. What would this guy take to-

"Uh, not today, sweetheart," came a low, mellow voice. The tone wasn't easy, though. That was a warning. She looked up at the tall, dark man and his shaven head. Oh, please, not another gay one! And the older guy in the expensive jacket-now he was definitely not gay. But the hot one? Looked too good to be straight, especially with the attention that was focused on her uninterested mark. Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn. "We been looking all over the place for you. C'mon."

Without a word, her focus got up and started walking off. Last chance.

"Hey, you won, like, two thousand dollars here," she said, just enough wonder in her voice to make him turn around. From the reflection on the machine, he did. Over his shoulder.

"Keep it," he tossed to her, turning back to talk to his friends. Lover and friend?

"You do realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?" a new voice asked.

"Must have been quite a conversation. What was it about?" That was the hot one.*

She didn't hear his reply. She wasn't paying attention. She played a hand, made it look like she hadn't heard, didn't care. But she did.

"_You do realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?"_ The last word echoed in her head. Hooker. It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time. But it did. Was that all she was anymore? She closed her eyes, blocking out the world around her while she regained something like equilibrium.

What had happened to her?

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* All dialogue and general movements quoted from S4, Ep. 7, "Memoriam." The rest of the story probably won't contain any quotes from this episode or others, but it may reference the events of "Memoriam." No copyright infringement intended.


	2. Goodbye

To a Hooker

by: TarnishedArmour

A _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction; Reid-centric.

Timestamp: During & after the events of season 4, episode 7, "title"

Summary: "You realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?" Hooker. It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time. But it did. Was that all she was anymore?

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Juliette looked at the machine and sighed. This was not what she had planned when she struck up a conversation with the slender young man to her left. Not at all. She didn't think it was possible for anyone to hurt her feelings anymore, but he had. His friends had.

Hooker. What an ugly word. So what if it came from General Hooker and his camp followers? It hurt her today.

"Everything okay, Julie?" came the familiar voice of Tony, the boss of this section.

"Yeah. Cashin' out," she said, her voice normal. The butt of her cigarette was resting in the martini glass, quickly stubbed out after the man and his friends left. No need for a prop when no one was there to see, right?

Tony leaned over her shoulder and whistled. "Nice work, Julie."

"Yeah, well." She looked over at him. "It's a down-payment."

"So your pigeon had to fly?" he smirked. Tony knew what she did for a living, and he didn't seem to mind. Sometimes, to keep a guy happy, he'd steer someone her way. Sometimes that was just for a drink and a cheer-up, a kind of friend, and sometimes that was for a celebration upstairs in the winner's room. Either way, the casino, the patron, and Juliette all benefited. Tony had one of the best track records in the casino for keeping patrons happy. And now she could use that.

"Yeah, but he didn't give me his room. Can you check it?" she asked.

"Boss isn't happy when I check casino cameras to help out the working girls," he warned.

"So he's happy when guests don't get what they pay for?" she shot back. Then she softened. "It's a hell of a down payment, Tony." She pointed to the number on the screen. 2325. That was dollars, but the screen showed 'points'-not that anyone was fooled. For some reason, though, leaving out the dollar sign and decimal made the game seem more abstract and less real. A true working girl never forgot-and neither did real gamblers. It was the day-trippers that forgot, that lost track.

"Yeah, all right." He called up to the eye in the sky and got the description. From that, he went to the registry. Ten minutes later, he was back with her cash and a name and room number. "Spencer Reid-which suits him, skinny as he is-and he's in room 419."

"Thanks, Tony."

"So you owe me, right?" he said, grinning.

Juliette snorted. "Consider this finally paying back one of many favors you owe _me_," she replied. "Gotta run."

"You're not working today?"

She gave him a naughty grin that she was not feeling at all. "Tony, Tony, Tony. With a down-payment like this, I'm making sure it's all on for Spencer Reid." If he even recognized her later, which he probably wouldn't.

No matter. She had a few other things to do today. Like go home and get out of her work clothes and into jeans and a t-shirt. Put her hair up. Take off the make-up. And go to the UNLV campus to see if her AS was good enough to get her back into the nursing program.

It was time to leave, not just the hotel, but the life. She wouldn't miss it at all.

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"Is she in?" Juliette asked, standing on the porch of the mansion outside city limits. This was her home base, but not her home. And Mrs. Ibsen was her check-in, not a madam.

"One minute, Miss Juliette." The man was not happy, but he was polite. Then again, he knew when one of the workers-guys and gals-came by unannounced, it was either very, very good news, or very, very bad news. Since she wasn't bleeding, he knew it wasn't bad news.

She remembered the times she'd come and it hadn't been good news. Prostitution was a dangerous game, even when there was someone to call and talk to before going to work. Juliette had been beaten up a few times, threatened a few more, but that was why Mrs. Ibsen's service was so important. She wasn't a pimp, she wasn't a madam. She was a check-in, and she ran one hell of a security service. Juliette didn't know what happened to the men who'd hurt her-really hurt her-and she didn't want to know. Chances were very good that they had been equally wounded. If there was a repeat offender, well, the girls whispered that the coyotes had grown fat on people who crossed Mrs. Ibsen.

"Mrs. Ibsen will see you, miss." The memories were interrupted quickly, more because Mrs. Ibsen was curious than because he thought it was a good idea.

"Thanks, Jamison," she said, smiling.

Jamison said nothing, but led her to the back patio where Mrs. Ibsen was taking brunch.

"Ah, Juliette, my dear. Sit down, sit down. It has been a while. All is well, I trust?"

The gentle, warm greeting made Juliette smile. Mrs. Ibsen didn't look like a woman who had several very strong, skilled men eating out of her hand, but she did. She certainly didn't look like a potential crime lord, but she was. If the Queen of the Meadows ever let her take over. When it came to knowing, nobody could outfox the Queen. Then again, the Queen had known and outlived the old Vegas crowd. And Mrs. Ibsen seemed to be her right hand.

"Everything's just fine, Ibby," Juliette replied with a smile. "I …I needed to tell you that I'm leaving the business."

Mrs. Ibsen raised her eyebrows and said nothing.

"I'm going back to nursing school. At UNLV. I have more than enough to live on and pay the tuition…" Juliette felt the smile fading. She looked down at her lap.

"And you just can't do it anymore, can you?" Mrs. Ibsen asked gently.

Juliette shook her head, then managed, "No."

"Did anyone hurt you?" It was such a natural question, such a protective question, that Juliette just smiled. Even if she wasn't going to be paying Mrs. Ibsen 10% a month for protective services and records-keeping for all of her legal papers and health records anymore, Mrs. Ibsen was well-known for keeping tabs on and looking out for her girls. And guys.

"No, nothing like that. Just…Ibby, I was a nursing student. A good one. I held a 4.0, I was acing my upper-level courses…and then I had to go to work." It was an old story. She'd needed money, she'd had nothing, she'd been desperate. So she'd hooked. "Anyway, I took your advice and invested carefully, not just spending everything on the high life. I've got a really good nest-egg-enough to pay for courses, to live on until I find a position…I could take a pretty good bit of time off."

"You mentioned having a goal before, but I'd wondered if you'd forgotten about it." Mrs. Ibsen was quiet for a moment, pouring coffee for her guest. Juliette added sugar and cream. "How is your sister?"

"She's great. She loves Princeton. Her scholarship is more than enough to take care of her, and, if she wants to continue through to her Ph.D, either scholarships or big sister can pay for it." Juliette grinned. "She's a senior this year. Another graduation…Have I really been doing this for six years?"

"Mm. Doing very well for six years. You learned things that most girls don't: how to pace yourself and to take care of yourself. So many girls burn out and lose all empathy by their third year in. Some before that." Mrs. Ibsen was too damned discerning.

"The last year or so has been hard. I just-just couldn't see the way out. Or a reason to get out. Every man wanted the same thing, just with a different name to call out or a different hotel room…" Juliette shook her head, getting rid of the memory. "So it's time to get out."

"Juliette, you are one of the top girls I look after. You could be exclusive, if you wanted. You could have this." The wave of her hand took in the mansion and the extensive grounds. She had earned it all, maybe on her back, maybe at the tables-no one was really certain, except for her. Mrs. Ibsen was not her real name, and had never been married. Not to a man, at any rate. It would be better to call her Mrs. Washington-the woman was married to the money. And the power.

"I don't want it. Not when…" Juliette stopped there. When Mrs. Ibsen's eyes narrowed, Juliette knew she'd said too much.

"You've never had a man when you weren't working, have you?" That was Mrs. Ibsen's definition of a virgin. Virginity was not a business transaction, it was not physical. It was a state of mind. Selling one's body was not the same as selling one's heart-and only a fool sold hearts. Juliette had never been a fool. Just desperate.

"No. No men, women, multiples, or toys-not even myself. It's a _job_, Ibby, nothing more." Should it be? A disturbing question for a girl who'd spent six years professing the hell out of it.

"And you've never stayed with a john more than one night." Another reason she couldn't be an exclusive. One night only, no repeats, no refunds, no problems. And no obsessive johns like some of the girls had to deal with. A lot of powerful, rich men were okay with that, so long as the discretion they bought was supplied. Since Juliette didn't ask for names and would not meet anywhere but the hotels, she was fairly popular with the obscenely rich set.

"Never more than a few hours. Ibby, we've gone over this before." Juliette was getting irritated now. "And I'm quitting. I'm going back to school. I'm going to get my RN license and maybe even go for my Ph.D. in Nursing Science after a while."

"You'll still be handling latex and bodily fluids," Mrs. Ibsen said dryly. At Juliette's scowl, she waved the remark aside. "But that is as it is. Are you content with your choice, Juliette?"

"Very." Juliette took a sip of her coffee and smiled. "You know I've had a rough time lately. I've said a lot about all men being the same, none of them seeing me through the make-up and the slutty clothes-"

"Classic, seductive clothing, darling. You aren't anything close to slutty."

"I was a whore, Ibby. Let's not dress it up." She looked away. "It wasn't the men I was starting to hate Ibby. It was me. I didn't want to put on my make-up because I had to look in the mirror. I was scrubbing my skin raw every morning. But not anymore."

"You just finished your week off," the code for the inevitable biological facts of life, "and you go out for what, three hours?"

"It was three weeks-testing requirements. And I was out longer than that."

"And now you're perfectly fine and content, not angry with yourself or the men, and your faith in the males of the species and the world have been restored?" Mrs. Ibsen frowned. "Do we need a drug test or a psych evaluation?"

Juliette laughed. "Neither. I just…met someone."

"Someone…or a man?"

"A man." When Mrs. Ibsen didn't speak, Juliette continued. "And he didn't see the hooker. I'm not sure he even knew I was a hooker." That word didn't sting as much now that she was saying goodbye. "We talked. He left." Juliette laughed softly. "He left me over $2,000 on video poker, and he didn't make arrangements for anything later. He was a genuinely nice guy. I haven't met one of those in a long time."

Mrs. Ibsen nodded. "And how long, exactly, did it take you to decide you were quitting the game and going back to drudgery?" Mrs. Ibsen despised ordinary work. She had been a sex worker herself-she knew the game, the players, and where the skeletons were hidden. And the Queen was teaching her more.

"Six minutes," Juliette replied, thinking about her last cigarette.

Mrs. Ibsen gave her a curious look, but Juliette didn't elaborate. Talk turned to other things, practical and personal, and Juliette relaxed for the first time in months. No pressure, no wondering who her next john would be…no expectations from the company she was with.

It was nice. She'd forgotten how nice it could be.

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"Thanks, Paula," Juliette said, smiling. Her faculty advisor had still been on campus, and Juliette was now re-enrolled at UNLV for nursing, even though she had to retest on all of the subject areas before the new semester started in the fall. She had a few months to study and brush up on her schoolwork. She even had all her old textbooks.

It wouldn't take long before she was back in her real life, the one she'd had before. In a strange way, she felt like she'd never left. Like she was innocent again, virgin again.

The image of that sweet, confused look at the video poker machine flashed across her mind. She blushed at the next thought-those lips pressed against hers, those long-fingered hands skimming over her skin. And no talk about when to leave or how much or what was off-limits…

Then again, maybe Ibby had been right. Maybe she was a virgin, even after all this time.

Maybe after tonight, she wouldn't be.

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*A/N: Liberties taken with the UNLV nursing program admissions requirements, time of year S4E7 takes place; all mistakes mine.


	3. And Hello

To a Hooker

by: TarnishedArmour

A _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction; Reid-centric.

Timestamp: During & after the events of season 4, episode 7, "title"

Summary: "You realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?" Hooker. It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time. But it did. Was that all she was anymore?

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Leaving the trade wasn't as quick as it seemed. After leaving Mrs. Ibsen and UNLV, she had more to do before she could turn in for the night. Some things, by necessity, were put off to the next day. The most important things had to be done _now, _to protect her from her past. Luckily, she didn't have to worry about the money it would take to make these things happen. She wasn't worried about money; that was the least of her worries. She had more than tripled what she wanted to make and save, and she didn't waste her money on the usual luxuries.

Her car was simple, nondescript. She liked it that way. Her apartment-which she was leaving now, a move that would take most of the next day-was small and nondescript. Her wardrobe…well, that was bigger, wilder. On the bright side, she could sell so much through consignment, and even more to some of the other girls, it wasn't a bother. The underwear, no. That would just be trashed. Well, the working wear would. Except for a few things she particularly liked, when she wasn't working, she was a simple cotton girl. No lace, no silk, no satin, no microfiber, no spandex, no rubber, no latex, no leather…just plain, old fashioned cotton. Or linen. Okay, and maybe a little leather here and there, but only for special occasions.

The absolute first order of business-an new phone. Second, letting select people know she had a new phone. Unfortunately, enough people knew her car that she had to trade it in. She was considering a hybrid, but she'd read about the environmental impact of manufacturing some of the more specialized parts and was far from impressed. Until the manufacture of the individual pieces were as 'green' as the car was supposed to be overall, she'd stick to the old, trusty, internal-combustion models. Any and all pollution was known and quantified, without the hype. And this time, she bought brand-new with a great warranty. Her apartment, again, known to a select few, was going to be vacated within twenty-four hours. She'd looked around a few times lately, and found a new place on the edge of town, but not in the suburbs. It was a funky old building that looked like a giant cylinder, but the apartments weren't the expected one-level pie-cuts. Each apartment was unique, unexpected, and multi-leveled. The apartment she looked at a week ago was still vacant. A phone call later and her new landlady was so thrilled about her moving in that she agreed to hold the apartment for her. She told her it wouldn't be necessary, if it was okay to meet later that night. She would sign the papers that evening, and tomorrow she could get her good stuff out of storage, sell most of what was in her current apartment, and quietly disappear from the scene. The business day was committed to taking care of landlord, city, and state requirements for moving, leaving the profession, and changing cars. Tomorrow, though, she could move. That thought alone got her through the mile-long line at the tag office with a smile.

The next morning came quickly, and she welcomed the day. It felt so good just to put on the simple things in the morning. Basic jeans and t-shirt, tennis shoes and a pony tail. No make-up, just some tinted moisturizer with SPF 25. No worries about matching undies or who would see it-and her new phone was ringing.

"Hello?" She asked, not looking at the screen.

"You didn't come back last night," Tony's voice chilled her. "Anything go wrong?"

"No." She bit her lip. "I told you, right?"

"Yeah," Tony's voice softened on the word. "I'm gonna miss you Julie."

"You'll see me around," Juliette promised. Maybe she'd tell him her name wasn't really Juliette. Maybe tomorrow. "I just won't be as…glittery."

"You're hard to miss, anyway, Julie. But hey, not why I called. Got some news for you." The businesslike tone he was using now did not make it sound good.

"He didn't…make a scene, did he?" Juliette could have sworn he hadn't given her the money for a down payment. He wasn't the type. She would swear to it.

"Nothing like that, just, Julie…he's a fed."

"A what?" The nickname didn't register.

"FBI. G-man. Suit. Revenoo-er." The sudden twang in his voice told her he was irritated that she was moving so slow. "The kind of big-shot cop that don't have much use for the wild side of Vegas. You getting me?"

"I hear you." Juliette hesitated. "Don't worry about it. You know I can be discreet."

"That's not what I meant." The sudden shouts in the background told her that whatever he was going to say was going to have to wait. "Ah, hell. Gotta go."

Juliette hung up the phone. On a whim, she opened the text feature, and sent Tony a message.

_Juliette was for work. My name's Adrianna. Call me Adia. This message will self-destruct. _With a giggle, she hit send. If nothing else, when the dust settled and the patrons were stroked or punted, he'd get a grin.

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Adrianna practiced being herself again. It was harder than she'd thought. A message to her sister, letting her know that nursing school was back on-not that she'd ever said exactly what her 'day job' was or why she so often had the night shift. That everything was fine. That she'd be there for graduation in December.

Moving took up most of the day. It took another to make sure everything in her old apartment was taken care of, to say goodbye to the girls she got along with. To wish everyone well. It was almost seven before she knew it. A little after the hour, she went to find room 419. It was late enough that Mr.-no, _Agent_-Reid was still there. A quick call to Tony told her he hadn't checked out and wouldn't until the morning. It was plenty of time. She had all night.

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Adrianna knocked on the door to room 419. She could hear that kind voice speaking, calling out to someone named Morgan about needing something-and then the door opened.

"You're not Morgan," he said, blinking.

"No, I'm Adrianna. We met a couple days ago." And then it registered. She could tell by the way his mouth opened and closed, then opened and closed again.

"That…that wasn't a-it was-I didn't mean..." She shook her head. He had noticed.

"No. I know." Adrianna bit her lip. "Look, I'm not here to…you know. I wanted to ask if you were busy. If you wanted to go out to dinner. That's all."

"Me?" He blinked again.

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"Well, I did tell you to keep over two thousand dollars, and, given the clothing and the pick-up lines…" Apparently he hadn't been oblivious after all. "I'm just glad you didn't show up that night."

_Guess it is that hard to believe._ Adrianna looked down at her very sensible tennis shoes and up into his eyes. His wary eyes that had been so open and kind not so long ago. "I suppose you want to know why I'm here."

"That would be a good place to start." The wariness in his posture, in his words, made it hard to go on.

"Can I at least come in? It's…not really a conversation for a hallway." He gave her a long look. He was measuring something, but she wasn't sure what. When he didn't reply. She shook her head. And she thought 'hooker' had hurt? This was…much worse. "Look, I'm going to the Alibi Room. I'm getting a table for two. If you want to join me, ask the hostess for Adia. If you don't, I'll understand." No matter how much it hurt.

With that, she turned and walked away. Somehow, she got to the elevator and the doors closed before her eyes teared up. It took more than she thought possible to choke them back down, to hold her head up, to walk out of the front door like she belonged and everything was fine. She'd faked so much in the past few years…why was faking confidence and ease so difficult now?

Ten minutes and one cab ride later, Adrianna was in her favourite booth at the Alibi Room, a tribute to the wild days of the gangsters and molls, the torch singers and tommy guns, all wrapped around a speakeasy atmosphere. Rita was singing the old standards, the torch songs that fit the smoky room and the dim lighting so very well.

Adrianna ordered a martini with two olives, marked the time on her phone, and gave him thirty minutes. If he didn't show by then, he wouldn't. It was no big deal. There was no involvement. But it felt like there was. The martini arrived almost immediately-she was well-known here, and well-liked. After thanking the waiter, she took a sip, listening to the last few chords of something sweet and low-down fade into the air. This place was a balm to her soul.

She closed her eyes and listened to "Begin the Beguine," letting the old song ease the ache, the wonder and worry of the non-conversation she'd had at room 419. Three or four verses in, she could heard someone clear his throat next to the table. Adrianna opened her eyes.

"You came," she said, softly. "I almost didn't expect you to."

"I almost didn't," he admitted. "Do you mind?" He gestured to the other seat.

"Not at all." He slid into the booth, moving easily in the space.

"Is this place new?" he asked looking around, obviously curious.

Adrianna laughed. "It wasn't around in the old days, but it's been here for a good fifteen or twenty years. The Alibi Room doesn't advertise. It's mostly for locals, and we like it that way."

Spencer smiled. "I haven't been a local for a good fifteen years, but I am a native, and I have to say I've never heard of this place before tonight."

"You were running with the wrong crowd," Adrianna rasped in a horrible Godfather impression. "This place, you gotta know a guy."

"That's probably from a movie," Spencer said.

"Well, no, but I tried." She looked at him. "You've never seen _The Godfather_?"

"No." She blinked. "I don't watch a lot of movies. I've never seen _A Clockwork Orange_, either." Her eyes grew wide.

"Never?"

"Never. I have seen the original _Solaris_, though."

"I missed that one," Adrianna said. "But I did see the remake."

"The original is in Russian." He paused. "My name's Spencer." He left off the Special Agent and Doctor and Reid.

"I'm Adrianna, but I already told you that." She looked down at her martini. "Would you like a drink?"

"They have a full bar?" At her nod, he pursed his lips. She caught her waiter's eye. He came over, quiet and efficient, waiting for an order. "Do you have Four Roses?" At the waiter's nod, he continued, "I'd like Four Roses, neat."

"Small Barrel?" was the only question. Spencer looked pleased and nodded. The waiter nodded in reply-they didn't introduce themselves at the Alibi Room, and nobody wore nametags-and ghosted off to the bar.

"I take it you like bourbon," Adrianna said with a smile.

"Better than most. It, ah, makes a good point for sipping slowly." His wry voice made his point well for him. He didn't have to tell her there was something about alcohol that made him very careful, but he wasn't an alcoholic. That much, she recognized.

Adrianna laughed. "That it does." Silence fell between them for a minute. Neither one knew quite what to say, so they listened to the music. The waiter returned with the bourbon before either one had found something to say.

Finally, after they had each taken several sips, Adrianna said it.

"I'm not a hooker." She kept her voice soft, her eyes down. "I mean, I was. But not anymore."

"Is it that easy? Just to quit?" She looked up and saw that slightly confused expression again. He looked so sweet like that…and she bit her lip.

"For me, yes. For a lot of girls…no." She sipped her drink. "It has more to do with how you get into the life than anything else. A lot of girls don't have a choice-those are the younger ones, the runaways and junkies who end up almost slaves to a pimp. The ones that do have a choice, though, they're the high-end girls, usually. Escorts, not hookers."

"And you were an escort," he said, softly. Adrianna tipped her head from side to side.

"Not…exactly. After the first few…transactions, I got lessons and learned how to find my own, to build a reputation, but initially…I used a…well, she wasn't a madam, but that's close enough." She looked at him. He wanted to ask something, but he looked a little embarrassed. "What is it?"

"Lessons?" he asked, his voice a little squeaky. "What kind of lessons could you have?"

"Dos and don'ts of the life. How to get out of a bad situation-though that doesn't always work." She couldn't stop touching the tiny scar on her chin. Almost no one noticed it, but it was there. "How to spot the ones who can and will pay. Who to avoid. How to make the payment aspect easy for everyone involved. How to get prophylactics in place without upsetting the john. How to move, to flirt…to not get thrown out of the good places where the high rollers go." She shrugged. "And, of course, how to fake it."

Spencer blinked. "So… is there really a course in how to fake it?" he asked. The idea seemed foreign to him.

Adrianna nodded, laughing. "The tricky part is the convulsing and timing the breathing. A little asthma attack, a little fake seizure, some moaning and groaning…but the pelvic muscles have to flex correctly. Some guys really are familiar with the real thing." Spencer shook his head and took a sip of his drink. He was blushing a little. Adrianna looked down and bit her lip. "It's easier with armour on," she muttered to herself.

"Armour?" he asked, voice a little sharp.

"It's what I called my make-up and…work clothes. I even used a _nomme d'guerre_. I could hide behind all of that, and nothing could touch me. Until a few days ago." The last came out softer than the rest.

"What happened?" Spencer asked, curious.

"I guess it's nothing unusual. I met a guy. He didn't look at me like he expected anything. It was like he didn't know I was a hooker." It didn't hurt as much this time. "We talked. He left." She paused. "I guess he did know, but he didn't treat me like it. Anyway, when he left, he left about two grand on a video poker machine. And he told me to keep it."

Spencer blinked. "I…don't understand." He left it at that, though there was clearly something else he wanted to say.

"I'd gotten too used to the predictability of the life. Every man wants sex of some sort, almost none of them are honest about it, and there's no point to talking to a hooker-even an expensive one-like she's a normal human being." Adrianna looked down again. "If we hadn't talked…I'd probably still be in the life. I…just wanted to say thank you."

"For being polite?" he asked, eyebrows going up.

"No. For being polite to a hooker."

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A/N: Taking liberties with time-stream in this episode. By my best guess, it takes 3-4 days after the plane leaves for the agents in Las Vegas to crack the case of Riley Jenkins. Between the amount of reading, pondering, looking around, sneaking around, signing warrants, and freaking out done-and the time it takes Diana to come off her meds and have the clarity she needs to remember before the voices come back-one day isn't enough. Even for Reid.


	4. Introductions

To a Hooker

by: TarnishedArmour

A _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction; Reid-centric.

Timestamp: During & after the events of season 4, episode 7, "title"

Summary: "You realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?" Hooker. It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time. But it did. Was that all she was anymore?

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"I didn't think of you as-as a sex-worker," he said. Adrianna winced. That was possibly even worse than hooker. "My mind was somewhere else, and…to be honest, I'd forgotten about the money." It was clear that he wasn't saying 'and the conversation' in an attempt to be kind.

"Now I feel like an idiot," Adrianna laughed. The waiter returned then. He said nothing. "Are you ready to order?"

"What's good here?" Spencer asked them.

"Everything," the waiter said, smirking.

"Do you want me to order?" she asked. Spencer hesitated, then nodded. "Any dietary preferences?"

"Anything's fine," he murmured.

"Two house specials. Make mine the usual," she grinned at him and he shook his head. "Same selection for him, but on the side."

"Cook's going to have a fit," the waiter remarked.

"Mm. Tell him I have that wine he's been wanting," Adrianna purred.

"The whole case?" the waiter asked, eyes wide. At Adrianna's catlike smile, he whistled. "How did you manage that?"

Adrianna shrugged. "I know a guy," she replied. The waiter left, heading to the kitchen with the order that cook would be ready to lynch him for and the news that would save him.

"I take it the special is rather complex?" Spencer asked, a little worried.

"Actually, just the opposite. It's a hamburger," she confessed.

"A hamburger?" Spencer repeated, as if he hadn't heard correctly.

"Like none you've ever eaten. It'd take too long to explain, but trust me when I say you will be ruined for any other hamburger."

"So it's an experience," Reid said, tipping his head to the side.

"Gastronomic ecstasy," she promised. "Especially because the order I put in includes the sides and dessert."

"Well, when you put it that way…" he grinned. She smiled. And the music played on, letting them move from one topic to another.

"Good singer," Spencer said, nodding to the stage where Rita sang.

"She is." Adrianna leaned forward. "She's a cop. Homicide. We met here. This is her outlet."

Spencer nodded. He knew about those, only too well.

"So, a cop who sings the blues and a former hooker who…does what now?" He moved back to the conversation.

"Goes to school. UNLV, nursing program. I'm working on the upper-level courses come the fall." She smiled. "I've wanted to be an RN since I was about five."

"Let me guess, to work with kids, right? The pediatrics ward at a major hospital?"

"Good God, no! Kids are beastly little creatures. They scream and kick and squirm-and bite! No." Adrianna shook her head. "Not kids." She gave a mock shudder. "Perish the thought." Spencer was giving her an odd look.

"Not trauma," he said, frowning.

"No. Geriatrics. I like working with the older people, the ones that so many people forget about." She paused. "I didn't get to do a rotation, but I did get my CNA license a few years ago. It was okay while I was in school the first time, getting a little cash for myself, but…it wasn't enough."

"Should I ask what happened?" he asked, careful not to push.

"Only if you're willing to tell me about yourself," she replied, uncertain if that was a good response. He was quiet for a beat.

"Well, I'm an FBI agent," he said, looking for a reaction. She nodded. No need to tell him she already knew that. "I have three doctorates and two B.A.s. I'm working on my third."

"What are they in-the doctorates?" She managed not to go bug-eyed at that, too. He didn't look old enough for one doctorate, much less three and a pair of B.A.s. He had a full house!

"Mathematics, Chemistry, and Engineering. I have B.A.s in Psychology and Sociology, and I'm working on one in Philosophy." He was looking down at his drink, which was about three-fourths full. "And, before you ask, I'm 27."

"Wow. So…what exactly do you do in the FBI?" He could have done anything. Literally anything. But why federal cop?

"I'm in the Behavioral Analysis Unit." He glanced up at her as she thought.

"The profilers." She gave him a long look. "Wait. You could do, well, anything, and you're working for the FBI and chasing serial killers and other sickos?"

"Pretty much," he said. It seemed there wasn't anything he needed to add to that.

"With three doctorates before thirty." Now the disbelief bled through.

"By 21, actually," he admitted. His voice was so soft, she didn't press.

"Then you are either incredibly stupid," she said, making him look up at her in shock, "or you are a better man than I thought."

"What-what makes you say that?" he asked, seeming honestly confused.

"Most people I know…they'd go private sector and avoid the government salary. You could write your own ticket anywhere in the world, and you took on a thankless job with crappy benefits and even worse hours." She took his hand. "That either makes you an idiot-which would be impossible, given the evidenc to the contrary-or it makes you a better man than I had originally thought." She smiled at him. "I know which one I'm choosing."

"Idiot, right?" he asked, a little grin in place. By the pleased look, she knew he was teasing. He could tell what she would pick. She hadn't made it hard to figure out.

"If the dunce cap fits…" she replied, smiling in return. "Do you…get satisfaction from your work?"

He didn't answer immediately. He watched her eyes, her face, and whatever he saw there prompted him to answer. "Most days, yes. It's not enjoyment, but there is satisfaction in it. Sometimes, though, we're too late, or we can't catch him for different reasons…or we do catch him, but…"

"But?" she asked, gently prodding.

"SBC. Suicide by cop." He was looking down again.

"Oh." She didn't ask. She didn't need to. His voice, his body language. There was so much more to him than met the eye. Although, the eye was not repulsed, not by a long shot.

"So, how did you get involved in…your former profession?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. She moved her hand from his and took a sip of her now room-temperature martini.

"An accident of fate." She knew that wouldn't be enough, so she took another sip of her drink and continued. This time, maybe it wouldn't hurt to tell it. "I had finished the spring term was working on a summer class, and was about to start my third year at UNLV for nursing in the actual nursing program, not the pre-reqs. I had my A.S., though, in Biology." Another sip. "I figured, why not get the degree, since I hadn't been entirely sure if I wanted to take nursing at UNLV or transfer to another college out of state. An Associate's makes the transfer a little easier." She took another sip and a big breath. So far, she was okay.

"My parents were killed in a bad wreck between here and Reno. My little sister was still in high school, so I had to take care of her. I was on scholarship, so my education was paid for, and Sis was working hard so she could get a full ride. We didn't have a lot of money. It was easier with me boarding, because the scholarship and work-study-the CNA license I told you about-helped pay for it, and my parents only had themselves and my sister to worry about. Mom had been out of work for a few months, so with just what Dad was earning…and no life insurance, and the bills…" Adrianna shook her head. Now it was just sad, not gut-wrenching. She had become hard in the life. Did she regret that? It was a good question. "I was desperate. It happened during the summer, right before my sister was supposed to go off for a summer camp for academics-I don't even remember the name. Mom and Dad had paid for the trip already, so there was no reason she couldn't go after the funeral and all. And it gave me a month or so to figure out how to pay everything. I was looking for a way and… I found it." Adrianna shrugged.

"But how did you get into the profession? I mean, the reasons are there, but did you just...pick a corner or what?"

"Wow, you have a way with words. I've never heard it put quite like that." He started to apologize. "It's okay," she said quickly. "I found a lady who could help me get started. She…set up the first meeting." Adrianna looked down.

"A madam," he clarified, more for himself than for her.

"No. But she knows the business, and the players. She…found someone who would be…a good start. And then she taught me the rest."

"Ah." He studied her for a minute, and Adrianna tried not to squirm. She didn't want to say it. "There's something you're not telling me. And it's important." He paused. "A new girl…isn't going to get the kind of money it takes to pay off the bills you were talking about." He was speaking softly.

"And you're good at your job," she replied softly. "I was a nineteen-year-old virgin in Sin City. You're a native. You can do that math."

"How much?" he asked softly.

"Enough to clear the debt, make sure Sis got into the college of her choice, and to live on for about a year. Here. In our old neighborhood." With each item on the list, his eyebrows climbed. "Yeah. Surprised me, too. And some men…like the new girls. Especially the ones that are still…well…fresh." He looked blank. "Uncertain. Innocent." He still didn't quite get it. She took a breath. "Tight." He blushed then, but he didn't look away. "Then I learned the skills, and, even though the price dropped, a little exclusivity went a long way in keeping the money at a good rate."

"And your boyfriends were okay with this?" he asked, mystified.

Adrianna laughed. "I don't-didn't-date. Ever." She shook her head, still laughing softly.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"A…lady I know. She says I may have been in the life, but I'm still a virgin. For a long time, I didn't know what she meant. I finally figured it out this week."

Spencer nodded. "I can see how that might work, in the emotional sense." He waited for a minute. "Does this count as a date?" he asked softly.

"I guess it could," she said, more than a little shy. Everything was so different without the make-up and the glitz. She could talk about the life easily, so easily, but when it came to this kind of normal interaction between adults…God it was so hard. "Six years in the life, and I'm finally on a date. Must be a record."

"Not really," Reid replied. "I don't date much."

"And by 'much' you mean…"

"At all."

"Really?" she asked, surprised.

"Really." He laughed. "I, uh, get nervous and start spouting statistics. Morgan gives me a hard time, but I just…don't go out a lot. Not to bars." He shrugged. He looked up. He must have seen the question she was about to ask. "And no, I'm not."

"I didn't ask," she said quickly. "I thought about it, but…well, you did spend a lot of time in college…"

"Yeah." He smiled, then, a good memory. "And once I was legal, there were a few girls. Women."

"But not girlfriends," she said, picking up on the difference.

"No." They were quiet for a time.

Rita started on a new song, one Adrianna knew well.

"Aren't we a pair?" came the slow, melancholy lyric.

"That's a little creepy," Spencer said, glancing at the stage.

"Rita's a mind-reader sometimes. Either that, or she's about to take a break and come over to give me hell."

"She'd do that?"

"In a heartbeat." Adrianna paused. "I never invite anyone to this place." He looked back at her, eyes meeting.

"A night of firsts," he murmured.

"Apparently," she replied, just as softly.

He looked down at the table, tangled his fingers with hers. She glanced down, then back up, suddenly nervous like she hadn't been since that first night when Ibby had set her up with her first. She saw the same nervous look in his eyes.

And somehow, it was perfect.

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A/N: Again, a few liberties here and there, but nothing that completely explodes canon. Pun intended.


	5. And Goodbye?

To a Hooker

by: TarnishedArmour

A _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction; Reid-centric.

Timestamp: During & after the events of season 4, episode 7, "title"

Summary: "You realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?" Hooker. It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time. But it did. Was that all she was anymore?

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Dinner arrived before Rita, and Adrianna grinned as Reid's eyes grew wide. Adrianna's burger was neatly stacked, waiting for her to add the one condiment-A-1 Sauce-and put the top bun in place. A single lettuce leave, a thin tomato slice, jalpenos, and pickles were perfectly balanced on a thick, juicy patty. On the side were Dijon-mustard mashed potatoes and fried squash. To the side of Spencer's plate, a few more options were provided, including onions. Two ice-cold beers were provided, a black brew in iced mugs.

"Gastronomic ecstasy?" he asked, blinking at the smallish burger and the smallish side dishes. He was hungrier than this. And the beer looked a bit scary.

"Trust me. And don't forget dessert." She dribbled just the right amount of A-1 on the top bun, used her knife and skimmed it over the bread. Then she plopped the top bun in place and picked up her burger in a practiced motion. "Bon Appetit." Adrianna took a bite and nearly purred. Once again, Cook had come through.

Spencer warily built his burger, left it plain, and took a bite. Adrianna watched as his eyes went wide, then closed. He hummed softly, then took another, larger bite.

"Try it with a bit of A-1," she said.

"With jalapenos and A-1? Isn't that overkill?" He didn't want to mess with perfection.

"You tell me," she said, offering the unbitten side of her burger. After a considering look at her and the proffered sustenance, Spencer leaned forward and took a small bite.

"Mm," he said, chewing slowly. He swallowed. "Hard decision. Plain is incredible, but with the A-1…it's even better." He picked up the bottle.

"Seven drops. That's all. Be careful. It pours quick."

Spencer counted the drops, then skimmed his knife over the bread and put the top bun back in place.

Adrianna took a sip of her beer after every bite, just enough to wet her mouth and compliment the spice of the burger with the smoothness of the beer.

"You don't like Guiness?" she asked, nodding to the mug.

"Never tried it," Spencer admitted.

"You'll be surprised," she teased.

"In what way?" he murmured, picking up the mug. He took a tentative sip. Blinked. Took a larger drink. Smiled as he put down the mug.

Adrianna smirked at him, then turned her attention to her dinner.

They ate quietly for several minutes, only the occasional comment about one or the other dish breaking the perfect enjoyment of the meal.

To Adrianna's surprise and gratitude, Rita had left them alone. Perhaps it was the feeding frenzy, or perhaps it was the fact she was here with anyone at all, but whatever the cause, Adrianna wasn't going to question it.

She watched as Spencer practically inhaled his dinner. She wasn't much better. Once she had decided on the Alibi Room, well, she didn't like to ruin her appetite. She'd skipped lunch and only had a coke when she got a little thirsty earlier that day. Then again, with this dinner and the dessert that was coming, she should probably skip eating for the rest of the week, too.

"That was amazing," Spencer said, leaning back. If he was anything like her, he would be content just to digest for several minutes.

"Wait for dessert," she said, smiling.

"I've never had a hamburger like that," he said, thinking. "It didn't taste like the usual ground beef."

"That's because it wasn't," Adrianna said, grinning wickedly. "Okay, here's the deal. The Alibi Room runs a huge variety, from good quality, but not expensive to crazy expensive. The 'house special' that I ordered isn't the house special. It's not on the menu at all. It's the result of a bet between me and Cook from high school. I bet him that he couldn't do something in the kitchen that I could, and I won. The wager was the world's best hamburger-his side-to three years of academic tutoring for free-my side. I won, so he created the world's best burger. I still tutored him, but he had to provide cookies. Hence the nickname Cook. It's short for 'Cookie'."

"Which high school did you attend?" Spencer asked, trying to remember her from classes. She was two years younger than he was, so it was an exercise in futility.

"Lake View," she answered.

"I graduated form Lake View," he said. She thought for a minute, considering the indormation.

"Oh my gosh! You're _that_ Spencer Reid!" she squeaked, a little louder than expected. She did not expect his head to drop and a look of dread to cover his face. "The teachers missed you so much…" then she stopped. "I said something wrong, didn't I?"

"High school was not…not the best experience in my life." The grudging admission made her reconsider the conversation. One of her teachers had told her she reminded him of Spencer Reid. She'd looked up the name in the yearbooks, saw the picture. He was a lot younger then-and a lot shorter. Best to wait for that conversation, though. If it ever happened.

"I didn't mean to…I was actually…there's no good way out of this, is there?" she said, giving him an out. She wasn't surprised when he took it.

"Not really. Was old Mrs. Dalcre still teaching physics while you were there?" He pounced on the small shift of subject available to her. If the answer had been no, any other option was available. Unfortunately for Spencer, the answer was yes-but Adrianna had a few conversational tricks up her sleeve.

"Pronouncing the Laws of Physics from on high, and confusing the hell out of everyone in the process," Adrianna confirmed. "She was funny, though. I really liked the way she pulled in science fiction and comic book concepts."

"Yeah, the Superman Project was pretty cool." Mrs. Dalcre had the students calculating the bone density of Superman based upon the amazing feats he performed on a regular basis in the comic series. As it turned out, he had to have bones so heavy that in one gravity, he'd be immobile. On the other, he had equal muscle density, so perhaps, Mrs. Dalcre had conceded, there was some possibility to the existence of such a creature.

"Did she kill off Santa, for your group?" Adrianna asked. The physics of Santa's nightly visitations around the world had long before been calculated, and no few students had been depressed for Christmas that year, even if they knew Santa wasn't real.

"And all of his reindeer," Spencer confirmed. "Speaking of reindeer, I read that the zoo has a new polar exhibit."

Adrianna took the cue and ran with it. "Yeah, and the zoo wonders why people get so grouchy about the state budget! A polar exhibit in the desert? And not one single alternative source for power-it's all coming from the grid."

"Really? There are several possibilities, given the dimensions of the exhibit house-the alternative solutions for powering at least a little would relieve some of the stress on the grid…"

And she let him wax poetic about the beauty of alternative power sources and the admitted impracticalities involved, citing the origins of the original power grid, average wattage and usage, and the devastation a long-term power outage could cause for the zoo and animals. When she could, she joined in. It wasn't often, but she enjoyed listening to him. His eyes lit up, he bounced from idea to idea so quickly-there was no comparison to anyone in her life.

It was one of the best conversations she had had in years. And he hadn't let go of her hand, either. That was nice, too.

Sometime before the gruesome deaths of penguins and after the spectacular grid failure from some form of unspecified catastrophic natural disaster, dessert arrived and the conversation stalled for a while.

"What…is this?" Spencer asked, studying the chocolate tower.

"This," Adrianna said, picking up a fork, "is The Tower of Chocolate Sin. An Alibi Room specialty. The shell is hard chocolate, but inside," she broke the shell and revealed the center, "molten chocolate sauce, cool strawberries, and the richest chocolate cake you have ever tasted, layered and portioned just perfectly." For two, this time, but she didn't say that.

He took a bite of shell and cake with sauce. From the look on his face, he was expecting overpowering sweetness, but that wasn't the case. There was a hint of hazelnut, a little of the bittersweet from the dark shell, and the cake was rich, but not sweet. The sauce and berries provided all of the sugary taste, and the balance was perfect, as always.

"Try some of the coffee with it," she urged, taking a sip. She never added anything to this coffee. It was perfect, too. No bitter bite, just the perfect, mellow taste that curled around the tongue and made her want to purr. She stopped his hand when he reached for the sugar. "Without adding anything, first. If it's not just right, then doctor it to your heart's content."

"Tongue," he said, absently, sipping his coffee.

"Then to your tongue's content, oh literal one," she teased, taking another bite from her favourite dessert in the world. He didn't say anything, but he didn't add anything to his coffee, either.

"What kind of coffee is it?" he asked, staring at the cup like it held the water of life.

"Extremely expensive, and requiring a certain amount of coffee snobbery to make at home that I just can't bring myself to indulge." She paused. "If you want, I can get you a few pounds from Cook."

"And it requires special equipment to make correctly?" he asked, looking up at her, clearly considering the offer.

"No, more coffee snobbery than I like. But to get it to taste this good, you have to follow the instructions Cook gives you." She tipped her head to the side.

"I'd really like that," he said, looking at her, checking for something.

"What is it?" she asked, not knowing what he was looking for.

"I really wasn't paying you," he said softly. "I mean, I appreciate the dinner and the time…but that wasn't why-"

"I know. And if you had been, well, I would have shown up at your room that night." And she'd still be in the life right now, bemoaning the fact no good men were out there. "And you would've gotten your money's worth, and I'd've left before daylight."

"You told me you wanted to see me to-to say thank you, but this is more than just a-a token of appreciation." He was fishing for an ulterior motive.

"I know." She searched for the words, but the only ones she could find were so damned cheesy. If she didn't answer, though, he'd be gone as soon as the coffee was done. "It's…it's like you reminded me of who I had been. Of what I had become. And…what I didn't have to be. I thought of it more like a birthday celebration-a night for celebrating a new life. And I wanted to…share it with the person who inspired me to make the change."

"Like a first step," he said.

"Yeah," she said. She took another fork of dessert and slipped it into her mouth. He seemed a little uncomfortable about the comment he had just made. "Or a baptism," she offered.

"Baptism by burger?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "I can't think of any religion that would endorse such a ceremony. There are several, particularly those that hold cows in a sacred light or disapprove of eating meat, that would vehemently oppose such a ritual."

"So we won't be heading to India," she shrugged. "Not a problem." She grinned. "Beats navel-gazing," she added.

"Why would someone want to stare at a navel?" he asked, the reference obviously lost on him.

Adrianna laughed and explained, and, between bites, got a rapt look and a soft "Huh." at the end of her explanation.

Dessert lingered and turned in to coffee, which, with the introduction of favourite science fiction authors and themes, turned into a walk back to the entrance where a picnic basket was waiting for them. She didn't have a check at the Alibi Room. It was the one place in the world she kept a running tab. She'd pay it off tomorrow, and she'd never tell Spencer that his gift had paid for about half of the tab. The basket was perfect, she knew. It was her usual way of things. She hoped the extra stuff was in there. She knew the waiter had heard her comment about the coffee. No need to tell Spencer how expensive this particular blend was, either. She wanted him to enjoy it, not go into shock.

"Your cab, miss," the hostess said.

"Thank you," Adia replied, taking the basket. They walked outside into the cool desert night.

"I guess this is goodnight," he said softly.

"Unless you'd like to finish the conversation," she said, tipping her head to the cab. "I have reinforcements in the basket."

He looked at her for a long minute, then at the basket.

"Reinforcements, huh?" At her nod, he continued. "And you'd just have to finish it alone?" Another nod. "Well, I suppose that, uh, it would be ungentlemanly to let you face reinforcements without sufficient backup."

Adrianna smiled up at him as he opened the door to the cab.

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A/N: Took a few liberties with the timeframe of Reid's addiction. I don't have all of the information, and season 4 ep7 is close to a year after he got help. Also allowed him alcohol, which may or may not (cannot find a yes/no answer!) be permissible for someone attending drug addiction support groups.


	6. Night

To a Hooker

by: TarnishedArmour

A _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction; Reid-centric.

Timestamp: During & after the events of season 4, episode 7, "title"

Summary: "You realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?" Hooker. It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time. But it did. Was that all she was anymore?

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The cab pulled up to her new apartment building, and Adrianna got out. Spencer was kind enough to carry the basket and pay for the cab, which he hadn't had to do.

"Neat place. I remember seeing it from the road," he said as they stood outside on the sidewalk.

"Oh, wait until you see the inside. It's like one of those wooden puzzle balls-not a pie wedge in sight!" she enthused. "I'm apartment 3-A," she said, lifting her keys from her purse. She unlocked the door and walked in. "Are stairs okay?"

"Just fine," he said, looking around. The shape of the lobby area was basic, and very small. There were stairs to one side and an elevator bank straight ahead. "Freight elevators?" he asked, curious.

"Those are the elevators for everything in the buildling-from moving to just daily use." She started up the stairs, suddenly nervous. She really wanted something to do with her hands, but Spencer was holding the basket. Her purse wasn't big enough to justify two hands, and it had a shoulder strap. One hand was on the railing, an old habit, but the other just wanted to flutter in the air, randomly moving and showing everyone-or just Spencer-exactly how nervous she was.

They got to the door soon enough, and she opened the beautiful carved mahogany to reveal an architectural playground inside. The angles were all properly right angles perpendicular at floor and ceiling, but the cuts through the room revealed an upstairs and downstairs section, as well as an oddly-shaped living area that was mostly on the third floor.

"This is amazing," he whispered, looking around. The décor was easy to ignore-there wasn't much yet, but the open space and the nooks and the view! "You can see the Strip from here," he murmured, looking out and seeing the big casinos almost perfectly aligned with the window, sentinels of sin on either side of the brightly lit road.

"Kitchen's over here," she said, motioning to the left. He turned, and saw a small kitchen tucked into the far corner. "And there's something that needs to go on ice."

He walked over to the kitchen with her, set the basket on the counter. She pulled out a bottle of champagne, followed by a light cheese and fruit tray, then a loaf of light, fragrant bread.

"Nice reinforcements," he murmured. Then she pulled out a large tin of coffee with a piece of paper taped to the top.

"This is yours," she said, handing him the heavy tin. The look he gave her warmed her heart. And other body parts, too.

"Thank you," he said softly.

"You're welcome," she replied. There was a long moment of quiet as they stood there, not quite willing to move, but not wanting to stay frozen, either. She glanced down and saw the bottle of champagne. "Ice," she said, walking around the counter for a large bowl. He followed her and, when she reached for the top shelf, easily lifted and put down the bowl for her. "Thanks. Ice is in the freezer," she said. "I'll get the glasses."

"Okay," he murmured, moving with the bowl to the freezer. "How much?"

"Only about a quarter full," she replied. "Since it's still cold."

She pulled out the flutes, opened the champagne with a light _pop_ and placed the cork carefully on the counter. The irrational urge to keep the cork made her smile. No matter what, she would keep this cork, and maybe the bottle. New life, new mementos. Or something like that. After pouring the champagne into the glasses, she saw the bowl materialize to her right. She buried the base of the bottle in the ice, then turned to present Spencer with his glass. The pink liquid surprised him.

"Pink champagne?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.

"It's delicious. Not as sweet or as dry as the traditional white, but not as heavy as a red wine, either. Try it." He did, and then the moment turned a bit awkward. She wanted him, but she wasn't sure what he wanted. If he wanted. And she didn't know how to ask. Not like this. Not without the armour, the shield of her former profession between her and her actions. Between her and him.

He made it easy by turning to look out of the picture window. "Beautiful," he whispered again, glancing down at her. She wasn't quite sure if she meant the view, or her. So she looked away, then back at him. His gaze has shifted back to the window. Damn. Was that the wrong thing to say?

"Do you dance?" she asked, casting about for something to ease the awkwardness, gaze falling on the radio.

"No," he said. "I have three left feet."

"Wow. They multiply?"

"Only when I try to dance. Or do anything athletic," he added.

"Well, I'm not talking about show dancing, just a little moving to a beat." She looked up at him. "You have some rhythm, right?"

He blushed. "No complaints about rhythm," he murmured.

She blushed. How had she started blushing? She should be immune! "That's…not what I meant." Adrianna walked over to the radio, turned it on an easy, late-night jazz show. "Come over here. We've got plenty of space."

They had almost the whole room. Other than a television table on one wall and a couch on the nearby wall in a cozy little nook, the only other furniture in the main area was a small table and the built-in window seat by the focal window. And pillows. There wasn't even a rug over the hardwood floors.

Spencer set down his champagne next to hers, and walked over. "I apologize in advance to your feet," he said, more than a little sheepish.

Adrianna just shook her head, took his hand, and stepped into his arms. The slow, easy beat was perfect for swaying gently in place, just moving enough to say it was dancing. And he didn't step on her feet at all. Sometime during the second song, the swaying had slowed and the butterflies came out in full force as the temptation to kiss him grew stronger than she thought it could. And it kept growing. He didn't say anything, just leaned down a little. She rose to meet him.

She'd been kissed before, in ways that would make Spencer blush for a year, but this was completely different. There was no endgame in sight. There was no insistent hustle to the bedroom. And his lips tasted sweet, like chocolate and champagne and coffee. When the kiss changed, became more carnal than hesitant, she felt like she could fly. There was still no demand, just a statement of want. And she pulled him in deeper.

When they came up for air, the music had changed again, and Adrianna was floating. Her knees were trembly, she was achingly wet, and she felt like everything would be perfect, no matter what happened. Before she could say anything-not that she could think of anything to say-he kissed her again, another soft, sweet kiss that pulled back a little from the edge…and she didn't want to stop.

Somehow, one of them took a step back. A minute later, they were moving. She couldn't think of which one picked up their champagne glass first, but soon he was carrying the bowl and tray and she had their glasses and napkins and they were upstairs in her room.

And she didn't find it strange or difficult or anything but right.

Spencer put the bowl on one nightstand. They didn't turn on the light. Enough light was seeping through the curtain that they could see. Their glasses were empty. She poured again. They sat on the bed, and she didn't want to break the silence. But she had to be honest.

"I didn't…plan to…this," she finished, limping in the direction of an inference.

"I know. I didn't either." He brushed the hair back from her cheek. "We don't have to." His voice was so sweet, so gentle, she knew it was the truth.

She nodded. "I know." She slid her hand along his arm, more muscular than it first appeared under the long sleeves. "But I want to. I just didn't want you to think…"

"I don't." His voice was so soft, she almost couldn't hear him. "I probably should, but I don't."

She looked at him, turned her face to his palm, and pressed a kiss to the warm skin.

"Spencer," she said softly, and nothing more. Their eyes met, Her lips parted, an unconscious invitation. It wasn't long until there was nothing between them but silence and the night.

For the first time in her life, she didn't focus on all the little details. She didn't have to say what she wanted, or make up something he wanted to hear. For once, for one time, there was a reverence to touch, to feel, to movement and stillness. Finally, she felt the want she had faked for so long.

When they finally came together, that last part of her that could hold on to the life, the part that said she could go back whenever she needed to, snapped. It was almost a physical sensation.

After six years of whoring, one night with a good man broke her heart.

He was so sweet, so gentle, so perfectly cruel in his reverence. He held her afterward, after the pleasure came to her. He held her when she cried, seeing so much of the past and what she'd done to herself that it hurt, physically hurt. He pressed kisses to her hair as she cried, giving her an anchor in the night, the security to sleep, if only for a little while.

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	7. Day

To a Hooker

by: TarnishedArmour

A _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction; Reid-centric.

Timestamp: During & after the events of season 4, episode 7, "title"

Summary: "You realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?" Hooker. It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time. But it did. Was that all she was anymore?

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Adrianna woke next to him, not an hour after she had fallen asleep. She was still wrapped in his arms, his fingers lightly brushing over her back.

"You're still here," she murmured, lifting enough to look at him.

"Where else would I be?" he asked softly, the gentle confusion in his voice sending a lance through her heart.

"I don't know," she replied, honestly. If she had ever met a man like Spencer, it was before she understood the dance of sex and power. All of the rules seemed to fly out the window with him. They hadn't even used…Oh, dear God, let it be a false memory. She closed her eyes in dread.

"What is it?" he asked, concerned.

"I…think I broke a cardinal rule last night," she whispered. "Spencer, I don't…remember. Did you use a condom?"

He hesitated, then closed his eyes. "No." She shivered. "Is…there something I should know?"

"No. No, I'm clean. I was tested three weeks ago-a kind of vacation." She hoped he understood what she was saying. "So, no. And I'm on birth control, too."

"I'm sorry. I should have-" He would apologize for breathing-and she didn't want apologies. Not from him. Not for this.

"No." She covered his lips with two fingers, then smiled softly. "Guess I'm not a virgin anymore."

He kissed her fingers, and she moved them. "Guess not," he said. Somehow, he seemed to understand what she meant. "Are you okay?"

She looked into his eyes and smiled. "Better than I've been in years," she said, perhaps too honestly. But this wasn't the time, the place, for lies.

"Good," he said, pulling her back to him. She curled into his side, content in a way she'd only heard about. The champagne was probably flat, the cheeses sweaty, and the fruit warm, but they'd enjoy it anyway, in a little while. They'd enjoy each other again, too, before morning came.

Adrianna closed her eyes and let the moment sweep her away.

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During the night, she had regained her confidence. Spencer didn't feel like an unknown landscape. He was as familiar to her as Vegas, and so much sweeter, gentler. Like the desert, though, he could shake her to her soul. Twice more during the night they had come together. Twice more during the night they had held one another as the storm moved through them and the quiet afterward cocooned them in the darkness.

They had talked, laughed, enjoyed the tray and champagne, played sensual games with the lightest of hearts, then melted together in pleasure and slumber. Now the sun was rising, the city was becoming tawdry and cheap-its daylight rags. But inside, the pale morning light painted Spencer in shades of gold. And he was beautiful.

He moved, shifted, and opened his eyes.

"Good morning," she said, smiling.

"Good morning," he replied, a soft smile on his lips, long fingers brushing her hair back from her face again, voice raspy from sleep.

"Do you have time for breakfast?" she asked, tracing her fingers down his chest. He was very slender, but stronger than he thought. And he definitely had rhythm.

"What time is it?"

"A little after five," she replied. He wrinkled his nose. "Not a morning person, hmm?"

In reply, he slid one hand down her side and pulled her close. "Some mornings are better than others," he whispered before pulling her back into a sensual web.

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A good bit more than an hour later, they were eating cinnamon rolls and drinking some of the best coffee in the world.

"What time is your flight?" she asked, pulling her robe around her just a little better. Spencer was dressed, hair damp from his shower.

"In about thirty minutes," he confessed. "But it's the Bureau jet, so they'll hold the flight."

Adrianna shook her head. "Wow. A private jet." She paused. "You know, I don't know how thrilled I am to hear that." At his quizzical look-he couldn't speak though his mouthful of breakfast pastry-she added, "Fiscal responsibility with tax dollars. And don't hand me any statistics about it. This is purely a question of ethics and luxuries."

"Not even one little statistic?" he asked, lips twitching as he tried to pout.

"In writing, sure. But not right now," she said. Her tone turned serious. "Would you mind if I wrote to you? Not every day or anything, just once in a while?"

Spencer smiled. "I'd like that," he replied. The rest of the meal was quiet.

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A/N: Again, liberties with the timeline, but JJ went into labor in the afternoon; the end of the show pegged it as 15 hours, which makes somewhere around nine or ten a.m. as a reasonable hour for the hospital scene. In my version of events, that is. ;-)


	8. Home

To a Hooker

by: TarnishedArmour

A _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction; Reid-centric.

Timestamp: During & after the events of season 4, episode 7, "Memoriam"

Summary: "You realize you just gave two grand to a hooker?" Hooker. It shouldn't hurt, not after all this time. But it did. Was that all she was anymore?

This chapter originally mis-posted. My mistake. Caught and fixed!

EPILOGUE:

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Supervisory Special Agent Dr. Spencer Reid made the plane, but with only minutes to spare. He flashed a tight smile to his team members, the ones who hadn't let him go down the rabbit hole of his own memory alone.

"Tried your cell last night," Morgan said, giving him a look. "You didn't answer."

"Battery ran out," Reid replied apologetically. "I left my charger in the room."

"Wait-you weren't in your room last night?" Morgan's eyes were bright with amusement. Rossi looked over, eyebrows raised.

"The hooker from a few days ago?" Rossi asked, grinning.

Spencer shook his head. "I had dinner with a friend. We ended up talking all night." He lifted his oddly bulging messenger bag. "And I got some really good coffee. If you're nice to me, I might even share it."

Morgan and Rossi shared a look.

"The hooker," they said together.

"I'm not sharing my coffee," Spencer said, trying not to smile. Let them think what they wanted. They'd learn, eventually.

Spencer shook his head and looked out the window, not knowing that his collar was just loose enough that a small, purplish mark on the soft skin over his collar bone was visible.

"Actually, she's a student in the nursing program at UNLV," he said. He just couldn't resist.

He couldn't see the look Morgan and Rossi traded, or the grins that threatened to split faces. It was about time the kid got some kind of lovin'. Even it he _had_ paid for it.

"JJ went into labor last night," Rossi said. The change of subject was bound to get the younger man's attention-and it did. "She's in delivery right now."

Spencer turned back to look at them. "Is she okay?"

"So far, everything's fine. Garcia's calling us with updates. You might want to charge that phone of yours before we get there." Morgan's voice was light, relaxed. Spencer slid his hand into his pocket and felt the heavy coin in his pocket. The ease of the morning hadn't disappeared, but it sure wasn't the same as when Adrianna had dropped him at the terminal.

He rooted around in his go-bag, pulled out the charger, and 'connected' it to the phone and the wall jack. In reality, he'd turned his cell off. Since that was a very big no-no, he had decided to use the battery excuse. They still couldn't tell when he lied. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Before he could dwell on the question, he felt the change in the cabin as the engines spun up and the pilot started to taxi to the runway.

From one home to another, from one friend to another, in the company of friends. He liked the symmetry.

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30 months later…

Adrianna sat down at her table and pulled out the card Spencer had left her, his address and home number printed on the back in sharp, spiky writing.

_Dear Spencer,_

_Wow, the new girl seems to be getting to you a little. Is it her looks or her work? And don't bother to get defensive. Did she really cause that much of a stir when…_

_...I know you write back almost immediately, but this time, you'll need to hold off. By the time you read this, I'll have moved from this apartment. I told you I'd applied to work with the VA, and after all the interviews and paperwork, I was hired. I signed the 'willing to relocate' block. Guess they took me seriously. I'm moving to Virginia, not too far from Quantico. I'll be working at VA Charlotte Hall. It's across the water from Quantico, but it's not too hard to get from one side to the other, and I may be transferred to handle a few things there, if need arises. _

_I can't wait to see what Virginia looks like! I know you've described it to me, but is it really that different from the desert? And the humidity__…_

After asking more questions about work and Virginia area, describing what her duties were supposed to be, she added in that she hoped to have him over for coffee once she got settled in. They'd kept in touch with letters, met a few more times, when he came to visit his mother and once after another case brought the team to the Las Vegas area. Sometimes they'd gone to bed together, sometimes they'd grabbed coffee and just talked for hours.

As far as she knew, there wasn't a word for what they were, not really. It didn't matter, though. It was honest. And that was enough.

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Spencer smiled as he read the most recent letter. Seaver wasn't as bad as he'd made it sound the last time he wrote, but she'd done something really stupid-even worse than when she'd gone after the suspect in his house and talked to his family. Even worse than when talking down Owen Savage while standing between Owen's rifle and his own team's sidearms. She had potential. And he had an idea.

He walked to Garcia's lair and smiled at her, a slightly naughty smile. That would definitely get her attention. A little bribery with chocolate cookies would get her help.

"Hey, Garcia? Can I get you to look up an address for me? Name's Adrianna…"

_We are all travellers in the wilderness of this world, and the best we can find in our travels is an honest friend.-__Robert Louis Stevenson_

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A/N: VA Charlotte Hall exists, it's not horribly far from Quantico, and it is a VA clinic. Beyond that, though, everything about it is mine and mine alone-right or wrong.


End file.
